


Rock Me, Amadeus

by BrooklynBugleBoy



Series: His Pianist [1]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Cheating, Classical Music, Death, Dyslexia, Epilepsy, F/M, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Foreshadowing, HIV/AIDS, Infidelity, Loss, Love Confessions, M/M, Mozart references, One-Sided Attraction, Prodigy, Queen Family, Twins, gifted, opera - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-09-02 12:58:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16787419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrooklynBugleBoy/pseuds/BrooklynBugleBoy
Summary: "John was the only reason he didn’t end up cloistered in some dank little room playing classical music for all his life.Amadeus would always owe him for that… he owed his best-friend (and twin brother) for a lot of things.The Deacon Twins were born in August, the indian summer of 1951."(Dedicated to the lovely @squeerrel-girl on tumblr who thought I wouldn't do it. Here's for you bb. And @chaoskirin who encouraged me to post this dumpster fire :D Love you two.)





	1. Fifteen Years

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy! :P <3
> 
> None of this actually happened, duh.

_“The music is not in the notes,_  
_but in the silence between.”_

  
― Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

John was the only reason he didn’t end up cloistered in some dank little room playing classical music for all his life.

Amadeus would always owe him for that… he owed his best-friend _(and twin brother)_ for a lot of things.

  
The Deacon Twins were born in August, the indian summer of 1951.

Daffyth Arthur and John Richard.

The boys were fraternal, different as could be.

John was born with a head of fuzzy brown hair and hazel eyes flecked with green. Daffyth with platinum blonde hair that was almost white, _(he looked near-bald until he was a toddler, when his hair caught the light)_ , his eyes were teak without a single bit of his twin’s green hidden within their depths.

Different or not, the boys were inseparable.

And when their little sister Julie was born a year later, their tightly clasped hands opened to include hers as well.

Twins or not, best-friends or not, they weren’t the same person, not in the slightest. And that was okay.

John was a brilliant little boy, who could build them toys to play with out of nothing at all. As their family was never the best off, he was their main supplier of entertainment. Maths and just about everything in school came easy to him. He was _the bright one_. It was what people started telling their parents when the boys were barely in nursery school.

Daffyth was anything but.

He would always remember being forced to write his name in front of a teacher’s watchful gaze. Watching as the letters swam in front of his eyes and what he wrote out wasn’t anything close.

He remembered crying alone in a bathroom stall, knees drawn up to his chest, wondering why he was so _bloody stupid._

He probably would have been written off as _the dumb one_ all his life.

If it hadn’t been for the _music._

Music was the only thing he could do well.

He could read sheets of notes the way he never could read words. The music and compositions would flow out of him, like a faucet with a tap that could never be shut off.

He remembered sitting on a bumpy sidewalk as a child and writing out long strings of music. Piano concertos before he’d ever learned how to play. _(He learned cello first and then the harp. Piano was the last, even though it would become his favorite)._

It was how learned to show his worth to those he loved: _Look Mummy! I can’t read, but I can play Brahms’ Cello Sonata No.1!_

_Look Daddy! I can’t spell my own name, but I can play Prokofiev's Sinfonia Concertante!_

He didn’t have to be _the dumb one_ anymore, he could be the _musical child prodigy_ instead.

Playing concerts and in conservatories to earn money for the family, doing something he was good at for a change.

John and Julie called him _Amadeus_ as a joke at first, but it stuck. Better than his horrid first name in any case, the name no one could actually pronounce. He fully accepted being robbed of his childhood.

But it got worse after their father died.

The twins were just eight, Julie was seven.

Their poor young mother was left alone and bereft, no way to make ends meet. He helped, he had too. He could _play_ , it was the only thing he was good at after all. Julie and John could stay in school, they were far smarter than he. Maybe they could make something out of it.

“It makes sense, JoRi.” A little nickname he and Julie had coined when _Johnnie_ never quite fit their big brother _(JoRi= John Richard)_.

Amadeus was sitting on the green grass of the cemetery, knobby knees pulled up to his chest and face tear-stained and puffy. He ached to reach out and run his calloused fingers over the etching of their father’s name, but didn’t dare. Afraid that his touch would sully it somehow. It felt like there was an enormous all-swallowing black-hole where his heart was supposed to go.

Ready to destroy everything in its path.

It was only the familiar bodies on either side of him, that reminded him there was no hole. Just a little sister with a smile as unexpectedly beautiful as a summer rainstorm and a twin brother who always looked at Deusie like he meant something. _More_ than a prodigy… a good person, a good brother.

“You can’t leave school.” John was resolute. Amadeus merely rolled his eyes, leaning his head onto that narrow shoulder. John was the strong one.

“I am though.” Broaching no room for argument to anyone else, but for John it was a given. His twin brother, for all his quietness and serenity was actually the crassest and most overprotective little shit to ever exist. It was part of his charm.

“How are you going to get a job?” Julie asked quietly. “Have a family?”

Amadeus shrugged, his thick platinum hair was sticking up in every direction, because of the way he’d constantly run his hands through it. A tic he would sport for the rest of his short life.

“Who’d hire me?” A sad smile. He wasn’t really stupid, no matter what the world called him.

_All I’m good for is playing music and smiling, at the beck and call of someone else._

“Deusie, you’re not…” _Dumb._ John didn’t have to say it, they all heard it anyway. “You’re just _different._ ”

 _“Different.”_ He whispered back, a parrot to his worst insecurities.

_An idiot-savant more like._

“ _Special_ , JoRi means _special, unique. Perfectly you.”_ Jules corrected their tactless brother, lacing her delicate little fingers through his. John nodded his agreement. “Lots of people are different, but nobody else is _Amadeus Deacon.”_

_Nobody wants to be._

“Well,” He forced a smile. “Nobody else is _Julie or John Deacon_ either. And I get them as my brother and sister. So lucky me.” Beaming ear to ear.

He still left practical school at age nine.

At the same time he should’ve passed onto Year Six of prep school, he composed his first set of arias for the opera he would finish at age eleven. He would be shuttled around conservatories in America, London, Vienna, Germany etc. by minders all throughout his childhood. But he earned the money his family needed by doing it. Losing his childhood, to give one to the brother and sister he loved more than anything in the world.

But they never treated him any different. It was the only good part of his life.

Coming home to a brother who insisted on making their birthday cake together and getting batter everywhere. It dripped off the bloody ceiling after their mishap with the automatic mixer.

“Boys!” Their Mum had been aghast.

The twins hadn’t been able to stop laughing. Both of them practically choking with it.

They always made their birthday cake together, every single year. It was their thing.

Twin little hellions when they were together.

When they were apart, John was gentle, quiet and serene. Amadeus was bright, inquisitive and charmingly enthusiastic about everything. But together it was like throwing water on an oil fire.

Correction: things got _really crazy_ when they were together.

John, sweet sensible John, would do the same stupid shit that he would complain about everybody else doing.

With ordinary folk: _“Oh no! Don’t get black-out drunk the night before a final exam!”_

With Deusie: _“Don’t tell me what to do! I’m gonna drink half this bottle of straight vodka, because it’s my life, Amadeus Deacon!”_

Then, as he hurled out his guts into the porcelain throne mere hours later, Amadeus would be patting his older twin between the sweaty shoulder blades, in-between the productive and unproductive heaves. “I told you so.”

“Fuck you.” Another splash in the bowl. “Why does the world _hate_ me so much?”

“…Because you smell like booze and bad decisions?”

Those bleary eyes were still well-enough to send laser-beams of pure hatred up to his own. “ _I…hate… you._ ”

“So, you don’t want the fry-up I made you? Greasy sausages, oozy baked beans, fried up eggs, puddings, buttery toast…”

The vomiting grew vastly more intense with each descriptor and his twin brother was so moved by it, that he flipped off Amadeus with both hands.

“…There’s tomatoes too?”

Ah, but the allure was gone. _(He had to hide a giggle behind his hand.)_

Not knowing that in a few years he would be having the same conversation with a different brother. Only this one would have blonde hair longer than his own and a couple shades darker. A drummer in a little-known band called Queen.

“Roggie, you’ve got to _eat_ something.”

“I’m _dying!_ When I finally go, Deusie. Put me in the place I was happiest… _spread my ashes in the van.”_

_(In the end, it was Roger who chose Deusie’s final resting place, Montreux, it was the most beautiful place on earth)._

  
_-_ X-

  
Twins will be twins, and John found the same solace in music that Amadeus had enjoyed for most of his life.

Electronics and engineering would always be his first love, but his second was the shiny new bass guitar Deusie pushed into his arms.

The barbie blonde boy with his crinkled nose and bitten lip smile, so delighted by the unbridled joy and honest shock on John’s face.

“How did you…?”

John had never wanted anything more in his life.

But he couldn’t keep it, he _couldn’t._

“Deusie, we can’t afford this.”

He made a move to give it back, but the blonde bitch twirled out of his grasp. “Ah, ah, ah! Not listening!” Dancing around their shitty little flat in his mismatched socks. His hands wrapped tight around his ears.

 _“Amadeus!”_ John resisted the urge to stomp his foot like he was a small boy again. The object of his frustrations stopped and squared up, hands on his hips.

“What, JoRi? Because it sounds like you’re trying to give me back the gift I bought you for our birthday! The gift I spent my own money on, thank you very much. Look, you can build your own amp. You can keep that tragic bass guitar going, the one you’ve been patching up for years… But!” He held up a single finger. “You cannot audition for a proper band without a proper guitar!” _Let me give you this much, JoRi._

“…What audition?”

Amadeus excitedly tugged out a crumpled flyer from his jacket pocket.

“ _Imperial College_ on friday, they’re looking for a bassist!”

“No.”

Deusie pouted. “JoRi! You deserve this!”

“I’m not good enough.”

Amadeus felt his cheeks turn fire-engine red, hands on hips once again. One finger pointed directly into his twin brother’s narrow pigeon chest. “You take that back! You are _amazing!_ If I knew _anything_ about guitars, I would tell you just how awesome using _guitar words!”_ Prodding at his brothers’ chest with every single exclamation.

John huffed a laugh, rolling his eyes. “You would know if you let me teach you!”

Deusie vehemently shook his head.

“No. No. _No._ Guitars are _your_ thing, not mine.”

“You can’t claim an instrument!”

Amadeus looked at his brother like John had finally taken a header off the deep-end. “Uh, duh! Of course you can! Cello, harp and piano are mine, and guitar is yours.”

John shook his head, set down the beautiful bass guitar in its too-new case and hugged the living daylights out of the one person he loved most in the world. _(Well, besides Julie-bean.)_

“You’re so _weird_ , Deusie.”

The tiny blonde boy wriggled around like his life depended on it. “JoRi,” He whined. “You’re _crushing_ me…”

  
-X-

  
“Why do you always have to dress like a color-blind toddler crossed with an old man?”

Amadeus wrinkled his nose at his older twin brother’s teasing and pouted something fierce. Standing there in his violently yellow high-tops, red knitted leg warmers bunched around his ankles, corduroy green rolled up trousers and a matching red scratchy sweater-vest without anything underneath. He flashed a grin of his own however, and gestured towards his pierced ears.

“Sorry JoRi, all I can hear is the sound of bad disco music when you open up your mouth.”

John gave him the displeased Dad look again. “Amadeus Deacon…”

 _“AIN’T NO MOUNTAIN HIGH ENOUGH!”_ The younger twin screamed along to the symphony in his head.

John instantly recoiled. “...That is a _beautiful_ song and you know it!”

  
Deusie was the only reason John made it inside the audition room that day. His dorky little twin brother, holding him by the hand and insisting that he had to go for it. That he had to _try_.

The hall was empty when they got inside _(John wasn’t going in alone, Deusie wouldn’t let him. Still living with the you, me and Julie against the world mentality that he’d sported when they were kids)_ , probably because they were an hour or so early to the gig.

Nothing but an ancient-looking baby grand in one corner, a couple mismatched chairs and an empty stage.

John was looking distinctly green around the gills as they rolled in the Deacy Amp.

“Oi, hey, look at me.” He bumped shoulders with the dumb brunet. “You’re gonna do great.”

John was always doubting himself and that simply wouldn’t do. Amadeus was the only Deacon twin who could doubt himself, by royal decree and everything.

He eyed the baby grand with an eager sort of side-eye. As his brother was getting plugged in and set up, he inched his way over and played a few scales. Wincing because the thing was out of tune. To normal ears it probably sounded fine, but to his perfectly pitched ears it was like swallowing broken glass.

But he persevered, for his JoRi.

And with a grimace, started playing John’s favorite piano piece, well, at least it was when they were kids.

Launching into _Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata_ , the third movement of course. The exciting bit, according to John.

He was grinning, having eyes only for his best-friend as his fingers flew across the keys, he didn’t need to see or to read sheet music for a piece he’d already played before. Again, another skill his stupid brain gave him, in place of the common skills everyone else already had and took for granted.

Like being able to write simple sentences instead of concertos. Or being able to drink a beer without fitting on the floor.

His JoRi smiled, once he recognized the piece, John’s gap-toothed smile was something really special. A _cabaletta_ before the _cadenza._

If he could write that smile into an aria, it would truly be a gift.

That smile and the way his twin brother played every instrument he’d ever held, was something of beauty. Far better than his own skills. John was the real genius and Deusie would never ever let himself forget it.

When his playing petered off with a skillful trill or two that didn’t belong anywhere in the piece, he held an extended note until he deemed that it had resonated long enough, his eyes never leaving his brother’s, the phrase: _Remember that time you broke your arm and I managed this bullshit on a toy keyboard from the children’s playroom?_ Playing on his lips.

Instead all he got was a chorus of excited claps, the kind he often received at the conservatory.

His brother’s hands weren’t moving and John’s cheeks were bright red. _Fuck._

“That was splendid, love! Absolutely _marvelous!_ ”

He turned to see three young men standing awkwardly in the wonky circle of chairs. The one who had complimented him was a skinny boy with dashingly sharp cheekbones, fluffy dark hair and the most impressive teeth he’d ever seen. Deusie couldn’t help but stare.

“Are you part of the music program here? Oh shit… sorry, the room was supposed to be unoccupied…”

The tall boy with curls and crazy long fingers twisting the hem of his shirt, looked so bloody concerned, that Amadeus had to stifle a giggle.

“No! Honestly, it’s fine. Just playing around.” He jumped up from the piano and did a messy little bow. “But my super-talented and amazing big brother is auditioning to be your bassist!” He gestured to John with a flourish, his twin just flashed a small smile.

_Wow JoRi, way to sell yourself._

_Clearly I’m the only one with a future career in prostitution._

“Oh wow.” The blonde, who wasn’t him, piped up. “Someone actually showed up.”

“Can you play?” Blondie asked John, who shrugged with those deer-in-the-headlights doe eyes.

“Of course I can. I came to audition?”

The same boy with the impressive teeth was suddenly at it again with a: “Well, it’s not much of an audition, darling. You’re the only one here, so you’ve got it if you want it.”

John smiled slowly, like the sunrise just peeking over the horizon. But once it was there, it was impossible to drag one’s gaze away from, completely breathtaking.

The other blonde gave a little smile as well, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.

“Play us something, so we can see how fucked we are.”

And there went John, who could draw melodies out of thin air in the same way Deusie could compose his own pieces, the _Deacon Gift_ in action, he supposed. A killer baseline filled the small room turned concert hall and Amadeus had to force himself not to geek out over it.

JoRi was just doing so _good._

He plopped his ass down on the edge of the baby grand and just watched, with pure joy.

His brother’s playing zone looked like something magical.

The way he would close his eyes and pluck the strings with all the confidence in the world. It reminded Amadeus of himself. _(Although he was sure he didn’t look anywhere near as calm and put-together as JoRi when he did.)_

Deusie clung to music like a frightened child who couldn’t bear to cut the umbilical cord with its mother. John played because it made him happy. (Amadeus just didn’t have any other talents).

He closed his eyes and felt the notes fill his head as they always did. His fingers twitched with the urge to play, to do something, but he forced them open to watch his brother again. His JoRi. Something that made him almost as happy.

Even if made him doubt his purpose at all.

You see, he didn’t claim music.

Even when he was a child who knew nothing else and hoped one day his brother would be a brilliant engineer and never do much more than play the kazoo. ( _Just so Deusie could have something that belonged to him. That only he was good at)._

 _No_.

His loved his brother more than any need for reassurance of his worth. And playing made John so happy. He could never have taken that away.

When the room fell silent, it was to the claps of the boys as well as his own. They looked as delighted with his brother as he was. Which made them okay in his eyes.

“Well, not fucked at all it would seem!” Impressive teeth flashed a smile at Blondie.

Tall, dark and handsome wasn’t done yet though. “Where did you get your amp?”

“He _built_ it! All on his own! John’s an electrical engineer.”

Amadeus chirped, swinging his legs where he sat. He would rep his brother till his dying day.

Said brother flushed. “I studied electrical engineering, I take my last finals in a few weeks.” Deusie nodded enthusiastically as if to say: _Yup, look how cool he is!_

“What about you, darling?”

Deusie paused, raising an eyebrow. “ _What?”_

“Did you come to audition?”

Impressive teeth looked like he was being genuine somehow, not looking him up and down like some sort of choice cut, but Amadeus still shook his head. Running his fingers viciously through his white-gold hair again, without really thinking about it. Hello tic. “Uh, no. Yeah, I… I don’t play guitar.”

“You play piano though, very well it seems. Far better than I do and I’m our only pianist at the moment.”

_Ooo, so impressive teeth was pretty and humble._

Deusie hopped off the piano and squared up with the boy much taller than he. No huge surprise, given how Amadeus hadn’t grown past five feet tall. “I wouldn’t want to steal your position then.”

A soft huff of a laugh.

“Oh little love, I do far more than that for these tossers.”

“Yeah, he makes us wonder why we let him in at all.” Blondie piped up with a shit-eating grin, deftly dodging a shot to his head.

“Deusie would love to join your band. We both would.” John added, and Amadeus wondered why everyone always called his twin the quiet one. “I’m John Deacon by the way, that’s Amadeus.”

_Shut up, JoRi._

But his brother’s hard eyes managed to quiet him, _if you don’t button-up those lips, Amadeus Deacon, I swear to God. You will be stuck playing with those old boring conservatory fools all your life… Deusie, please do this with me?_

_Okay._

“Amadeus? Like _Mozart?”_

Tall, dark and handsome was cultured at least. Deusie smiled.

“Yeah, its my nickname, trust me my first one’s too awful.”

That was how he found two new brothers, a human guitar-and-cosmos-loving stickbug, named Brian May and a blonde drumming demon with insides like melty Godiva chocolate, named Roger Taylor.

As well as something else in a boy with impressive teeth and an even more impressive heart, named Freddie Mercury.

  
-X-

  
He wrote _(penned the music and dictated the rest)_ a whole opera for Julie one Christmas time, a spin-off operatic telling of Cinderella with the titular character being played by a pretty boy, the same with the prince. With them ending up together and being happy, far off into a future without a care.

It was his way of telling her.

She kissed him on the cheek. “I love you, Deusie. And I will always love you, no matter what. We three have to stick together: I’m the body, JoRi’s the brain and you’re the heart. We need each other.” _Together we make one functional human being._

But _the heart?_

His siblings would’ve been better off with the _Tin Man_ for that shit.

  
-X-

  
He was ten years old the first time he had an epileptic fit.

It wasn’t the last.

Because the brilliant gifted brain that got him called the Mini Mozart as a child and then a musical genius as a teenager and adult, was the same brain that made words look like alphabet soup and gave him these awful fits, that scared his keepers half-to-death.

He would mainly have them upon awakening, always one or two hours after waking up, he would be on the floor, stiff as a board, eyes rolled back into his head and violently thrashing about. He would cry out pitifully, as the air was forced from his lungs and his lips would turn blue.

Then he would vomit himself into wakefulness, sobbing in embarrassment and the indignity of it all, once the fit was over.

The doctors gave him medication after medication and he took every single one, dutifully.

_“There’s a chap… there’s a good little soldier…”_

He learned to sense when they were coming, an acrid taste in his mouth and a tight feeling in his chest.

He learned to avoid the triggers: _sleep deprivation, fatigue, flashing lights, fever, alcohol._

The medications helped tremendously and it was simple enough to run off and hide from everyone until the shit-storm was over. He didn’t tell anyone. Not his mother. Not Julie. Not even _John_ , who he trusted with everything else in the world.

His twin brother already thought he was _broken._

Amadeus didn’t want John to think he was _irreparably_ so.

Nine years later and he was managing just fine.

  
-X-

  
Deusie wasn’t sure how they all moved into he and John’s shitty flat, but soon enough the bathroom was over-run by fancy hair products, the drain was always clogged with hair, someone had put the empty milk carton back in the fridge and there was never anywhere to sit.

Amadeus loved it.

Sure, he was sleeping on the floor of the music room, where all his bloody sheet music and instruments were kept. But he loved it.

There was always a warm body to smoosh himself into.

“Deusie, I’m editing my paper!” Bri whined and Amadeus only snuggled closer. Coiling his fingers into those incorrigible curls, personal space was not a thing for him, it never had been.

“Use my back as a table.”

_Warm bony stick man._

He usually got Rog when the other blonde was in the kitchenette. Sitting up on the counter as he bitched about something or another, to a John who had tuned out at the first word. Amadeus would make a beeline for his squishy drummer best-friend and curl into him like a naked cat seeking warmth. His face smooshed between Roger’s soft pecs.

“God, he’s like one of those ball-sack cats.” Roger stage-whispered, a hand coming up to stroke the platinum blonde hair going up his nose.

“Squishy…”

“Fuck you, I’m all muscle! _Drumming muscle!”_

_Squish._

John was used to his brother’s tactile tendencies, the constant need for contact, but rarely had any need of his own.

Not until Deusie was pacing on top of their table yet again, scribbling frantically in his book of sheet music. The crazed boy hadn’t slept for three days, with endless notes filling his head and holding his hands captive until he finished. The old coffee cups laced with Roger’s copious vodka stash were a veritable fence around his feet to keep him from toppling off the edge of the table. He was practically vibrating from head-to-toe.

“Oh no. _No._ ”

On first sight John had marched over and taken him over one shoulder, like he was a fussy baby.

Amadeus frantically kicked and struggled, trying to wiggle out of John’s grasp. “JoRi! I’m not done! I’ve got to finish! I’ve got to _finish!”_ He was fucking hysterical.

Until he was flopped into Freddie’s waiting arms on the couch.

“Hush, lovie, you can finish when you wake up.” Freddie’s smile, Freddie’s gentle lovely fingers combing through his hair, Freddie’s smell filling his nose. Freddie.

He was out like a light.

Brian and Roger leaned over the back of the couch to stare at the sleeping younger boy, looking even younger while he dozed, dead to the world in Freddie’s lap. Which said a lot, considering he ordinarily looked like he was in primary school. John tucked a blanket around him like he actually was a baby.

“Does this happen a lot?” Bri sounded concerned, pretty common for Deusie-related issues, as he reached over to move a clump of hair out of those closed eyes, near-white lashes fluttering against his flushed cheeks, and John could only shrug.

“Sometimes _the music brain_ forgets he’s only human.”

Deusie slept with Freddie for hours upon hours, and woke up feeling better than he had in months. Of course he also ran to the music room, while the others were having brekkie, and had one of his worst seizures in recent memory.

So bad he almost aspirated on his own puke. _(Foreshadowing what was to come)_. Aspiration felt like drowning.

But it was so worth it.

  
-X-

  
He wasn’t really a member of Queen.

At least that was what he told himself.

Not all their songs had piano in them and when they didn’t, Deusie was usually shaking a maraca or his fat ass on stage, maybe bopping around with a tambourine. But that was all fun, it wasn’t like work was meant to be.

It was playing around with his best-friends and twin brother. _(The sheer amount of times he and John were credited as John Amadeus Deacon was a bit pathetic to be honest)._

But being in a band, playing with the people he loved most in the world, the whole experience was so amazing that it didn’t matter whether he was a real Queen member or not. It was the best thing he’d ever done.

Roger was always in such a crazy zone when he played, the beat flowed from his fingers like a second heartbeat. He was like a wild beast on those drums, but could then open up his mouth and sing like an angel that they’d borrowed from heaven for a single night. The first time he heard that voice he had practically thrown himself at Roggie’s feet. Desperate.

_“Oh, please, please, please let me write you an aria, Rog!”_

_The other blonde had blushed at the contact, staring at Deusie’s pouty lips like it was his job._

_“Sure, Casper.” Tugging on a few strands of that platinum blonde hair._

Watching John play was always a treat, but Brian’s playing was so _different_.

He and JoRi may have both been playing guitars, but the way they played was completely different. Brian played like it was an extension of his very soul. Everything words couldn’t express, Bri could through his instrument. It was like he’d torn his heart free from his chest and laced it through with strings.

Freddie’s voice was beautiful, all versatile and gorgeous in a way that words failed to describe. He sang in the tenor range for most of their songs, the tragic lover. Even though in spoken voice he was as baritone as could be. The operatic villain.

When Freddie played the piano, it wasn’t perfect.

It was messy and the intonations were wrong, but there was so much color in everything when Freddie played it. Deusie often found himself careening into Freddie and Roger’s room in the middle of the night, begging Freddie to come play one of his compositions. Just so he could feel the music in a new way.

Just so he could see the colors again.

Something he’d created, would be able to truly live with Freddie’s gentle and humble touch.

The band was bloody brilliant.

Whether he was a real member or not.

He would treasure those days for the rest of his short life.

  
-X-

  
On their twentieth birthday, he set up all the cake ingredients in the kitchenette and at 4:32 am exactly, he careened into John and Bri’s room.

Climbing up onto the lump that was clearly his twin brother and straddling it, as he shook the older boy awake.

“ _Happy birthday JoRi!”_

He screamed, at the top of his lungs. Then laughed hysterically when John jumped on instinct and shoved him off. Flat on his back on the gross carpet, bare pudgy legs sticking up in the air, showing off his bright pink boxers to the world.

John turned around blearily and made a big show of crawling over and looking down at a still-giggling Amadeus.

“ _Happy birthday, Deusie.”_

He sounded painfully fond, a little smile playing in the corners of his mouth.

Then they were making a mess in the kitchen like two little boys on a sugar high. It was tradition after all.

He shoved a handful of flour into John’s face. Then there was icing in his hair, sticking it up like a sugary gel. Both of them shrieking and chasing each other around with an electric whisk.

“What is going _on_ out here!?”

Freddie stumbled out of he and Roger’s bedroom, all adorably sleep-rumpled and his hair mussed. He hadn’t properly washed off all his eye-makeup the night before and it gave him a distinctly raccoon-esque chic.

Amadeus got so distracted by the sight that John took his moment of weakness to collect a handful of whipped cream and catapult it into Deusie’s face.

Suddenly it was _snowing_.

The other boys were definitely not amused.

Well, Roger was.

He’d staggered out after Freddie and was trying not to piss himself laughing at the look on Deusie’s face. Bri looked exhausted, but smiling behind that strategically placed hand of his.

“We’re making a birthday cake.”

John chimed in, ever so helpfully, as Amadeus tried to breathe around the whipped topping in his nose. At John’s statement though, all their friends were absolutely stricken.

“Oh bloody…” Roger smacked his forehead. “For which one of you? Which birthday did we forget?”

Bri looked so guilty as well, “Why didn’t you say anything? I’m sure we can scrape together something and take you out tonight.”

Poor Freddie had just paled considerably.

The twins only looked at each other and burst out laughing again. Leaving their friends more than a little confused, as they were practically brought to tears by it. Leaning on each other for support and the countertop.

“How can they not know?” Deusie wheezed, John shaking his head. “Did we never tell them?”

“Tell us what?”

Another shared look.

“Well, you tossers, you’ve forgotten _two_ birthdays.” Amadeus pulled a mock-pout. “John’s was at 4:32 and mine was at 5:01.” Lacing their hands together like tying up a trainer. Waiting for the realization to hit.

Brian realized first and he seemed absolutely delighted by it, scientific curiosity and all that. But before he could open his mouth to say anything, Roger (the one who studied biology) beat him to it. _Oh, Rog. It was early in the morning._

“So you guys were born _twenty-nine minutes_ apart? That’s impossible, you’d have to be…” His eyes widened. “Oh. Fuck. _Really?”_

They nodded.

“Meet _The Deacon Twins_.” Deusie announced with his jazz hands.

Then John’s tongue slowly, pointedly, licked the icing and whipped cream off the side of Amadeus’ face with all the seriousness in the world. Strangely, not the weirdest thing they’d ever done.

Twenty years old and hopefully with a lot more to come.

_(Fifteen…_

_Having a fit alone, aspirating on his own vomit, the music he’d never finish, going ‘round and around in his head like a merry-go-round._

_A hospital, a bleed in his brain, John crying, Freddie kissing the side of his mouth, lips salty with his own tears, Bri and Rog holding him with trembling hands and aching chests as the breath left his body._

_Peace.)_

  
-X-

  
“Farrokh was such a cute little boy.”

Jer Bulsara, Freddie’s Mum, passed a scrapbook around for all of them to see at the dinner table. Catching sight of a small skinny boy with big teeth and eyes, made him smile. Freddie was indeed adorable. But he paused at the sound, especially as Freddie’s beautiful olive-skin flushed with embarrassment. “ _Mama!”_

_“Farrokh?”_

Mary asked, equally confused, and both of Freddie’s parents nodded.

“Yes, Freddie’s given name... We are _Parsi_ , after all.”

Bomi, Freddie’s father, was only too happy to explain the misfortunes of the Parsi people to Freddie’s chagrin, poor bloke probably felt like he was being attacked on all sides. Once Bomi started in on how Freddie’s family-name wasn’t good enough for him anymore, disappointment and misunderstanding oozing from every word, Deusie couldn’t help but wince.

Lacing his fingers with Freddie’ underneath the table and nudging him with one shoulder and a sweet smile. “It’s alright, I don’t go by my first name either and its nowhere near as beautiful or unique as Farrokh.” And he meant every word. Sounds in new patterns were the same as music to him. He loved new words and languages. The way each language had a different feel on the tongue, every sentence was a new thrill.

Beautiful? Freddie mouthed the word like it was almost inconceivable.

“What is your first name, Deusie?” Bri piped up, probably in an effort to derail the awkward silence.

“Nothing you ne—“ He was cut off mid-sentence by an ever helpful John. “It’s Daffyth. _D-A-F-F-Y-T-H._ Daffyth Arthur Deacon”

“ _JOHN RICHARD!_ _The betrayal!”_

The boys burst into laughter at his high-pitched shriek. Freddie’s sister Kash choked on her tea and sputtered into a napkin. She stared at Deusie like he’d gone and grown a second head in front of her eyes. When she spoke though, the laughter died, and Amadeus contemplated swallowing his own tongue.

“You’re _D.A. Deacon_ aren’t you!? The composer?”

Oh, God. He wished the floor would open up into the deepest pits of hell and let him fall in.

He nodded slowly, poking at whatever was left on his plate with a fork.

“Composer? I thought you just played for the symphony?” Roger sounded confused and Deusie instantly felt sick. He should’ve told them. But being a musical genius, a former-child prodigy, it was a way to _separate_ him from the greater human populace. He didn’t want that, he never had.

He contemplated puking on himself. The nausea was there. It might even get him out of the bloody conversation.

Kash continued on, not noticing how obviously uncomfortable he was. “I love all your operas! Your renditions of Midsummer Night’s Dream, Swan Lake, oh and that opera about the drowned spirit girl… _Rusalka,_ that’s my favorite. I know I missed a few… Oh, Freddie and I learned piano with some of your pieces too, can you believe it!? And you were just a baby… Didn’t you write your first concerto at eight?”

He didn’t say anything, hoping that everyone’s stares would melt him into goo where he sat.

“We were _six_ , I think.” John shrugged at the muddy date, looking over at Amadeus with soft eyes.

Kash snapped her fingers, smiling delightedly.

“Oh yeah! That’s why they called you the new Mozart! Is that where the nickname Amadeus came from?”

He couldn’t do it anymore, he was shaking, trembling even. _“Excuse me!”_

He bolted from that room and onto the balcony like it was life-or-death, fight-or-flight. He couldn’t _breathe_. It felt like he was drowning in that room.

The poor boy greedily breathed in the fresh air once he was outside, his abused lungs, his whole body even, was _screaming._

He had been playing for crowds like a little dancing monkey all his life. He knew all the steps, knew exactly what to do for every occasion. But Queen, playing with the boys and his brother, _never_ felt stifling or like he was just acting a part. It was _real_. Now he looked back on his past with horror, he never wanted to be D.A. Deacon again. And if he had to, it would be on his own terms.

Deusie felt a pair of skinny, but surprisingly strong, arms wrap around him like a warm blanket.

“Are you alright, lovie? I was worried you were going to vom at the table.”

He scrubbed at his eyes with closed fists like a baby. “I’m fine, Fred. Did I upset Kash when I left?”

“Oh, yes, darling. The crying means you’re _fine_ , silly me. And no, she’s fine. A little confused, but we all are.” Freddie’s hands were soft.

“….Why didn’t you _tell_ us?” He sounded hurt and Amadeus instantly felt like an elephant had stepped on his chest, _Fuck._

_Because its stupid, because its embarrassing, because I hated it, I was used as a child and spent my life trying to prove my worth, because its the reason I’m so fucked up._

“I wasn’t _happy_.” He whispered, like it was his greatest shame. Turning in Freddie’s hold until his face was buried in a soft supple chest. Freddie’s smell was surprisingly comforting. Maybe it was just a thing. “I didn’t realize how unhappy I was until I started playing with you and the boys. I’m so happy now. I don’t want to remember the bad stuff if that makes sense?” A sad little laugh bubbled up from his mouth and it tasted wrong,

“I know its the only thing I’m good for and I guess, I just wanted you to think I was capable of more?”

He hadn’t realized he was crying again, until Freddie’s long fingers brushed the tears away,

“Darling,” A muscle in that sculpted jaw was twitching. “If you ever say that again, I’ll fling you over the balcony.”

“Huh?” He blinked rapidly and scrubbed at his eyes again.

“You are not only worth what you can give to people. You do know that, don’t you?” Freddie sounded so sad, Deusie nodded, but his hesitation had been answer enough.

“Don’t worry about me, Fred. I’ll be okay. I’m sorry I took you away from your birthday party, we should go back inside…”

The _kiss_ was something both of them had wanted for a very long time.

Freddie’s lips brushed his own and that was all the prompting Deusie needed to devour them. While he was very accommodating and kind in any other life situation, he was very demanding when shoving his tongue down Freddie’s throat.

A symphony playing behind his eyes.

Freddie’s first touch had been a beautiful _allegro,_ his response had been a slow movement an _adagio_ at first. Then when he was pinning Freddie against the wall, their bodies moved in _minuet_ , and finally a _sonata_ before they pulled apart. Pupils blown wide and lips swollen red.

Freddie’s long delicate fingers were instantly straightening his clothes and reaching over to fix what he’d mussed on Deusie, with a scary amount of focus.

“Freddie? Are you alright…?”

“My family can’t know about me, darling. They just can’t.”

Those lovely ever-confident dark eyes were filling with tears and Amadeus was instantly stricken.

“Not sure if you’ve noticed, darling. But my father isn’t exactly my biggest fan. This would only make it worse…”

Deusie stopped those frantic hand movements with his own, weighing them down like reassuring anchors. “Fred, look at me. Freddie, it’s going to be alright. I won’t tell anyone, I’d be telling people about me too, wouldn’t I?” Their beautiful frontman floundered for a moment before nodded slowly, leaning into Deusie’s arms without really meaning to.

“Do you have any idea how lovely you are?” The question was out of his mouth on reflex, but applied all the same.

Freddie raised his head with teary eyes at belayed his forced smile. “Of course, I’m _Freddie fucking Mercury_.”

Well that was new. Amadeus was about to open his mouth to say so, but something else slipped out instead.

“I can see a universe in your eyes. Sonnets in your lips, operatic movements in the way you walk, poetry in your fingers. You drive me _wild_ , Freddie Mercury.” _I think I might be falling in love with you._

The second kiss was just as wondrous as the first.

_Fifteen years and I’ll give them all to you._

  
_-_ X-

  
_“They probably think because I am so small and young, nothing of greatness and class can come out of me; but they shall soon find out.”_

  
_―_ Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart


	2. Ten Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, babes!!! I just forgot I had this done :D
> 
> Features Love Of My Life by Queen

_“Neither a lofty degree of intelligence nor imagination nor both together go to the making of genius. Love, love, love, that is the soul of genius.”_

― Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

Deusie rolled over in bed, and promptly buried his face in the hairy rainforest on the exposed chest before him.

Mouthing at the perky pink nipples nestled in the thicket.

Freddie practically squealed in surprise, those caramelized eyes snapping open with a gasp at one particularly vigorous lick.

Amadeus giggled, he just couldn’t help himself when faced with Freddie’s incredulous expression. But took pity on the older man, rubbing soft little eskimo kisses on some of the more painful looking love-bites.

“Good morning, my dearest heart.” Freddie yawned, pleased with the ministrations, looking quite like the cat who got the cream.

His long nimble fingers carded through Deusie’s eternally mussed white-gold hair. Those spindly hands felt unbelievably better than his own when he did it, as they were painfully gentle and they trailed all the way down to cup his round chin, forcing their eyes to meet. It was never a chore.

“Good morning, _Fuzzy._ ”

Rubbing his face in that chest hair again for good measure.

His boyfriend groaned, half-heartedly trying to push him off. “Yes, because that’s quite sexy, dear…” Rolling his eyes at the younger boy’s antics.

“Oh but it is, _Cousin It_ has always been quite the turn-on.” Smart-mouthed brat.

Deusie then shrieked with laughter as Freddie dragged him underneath the covers for his insolence, arse over flailing arms, to straddle his soft waist and run those sensual fingers over his sensitive love handles. “Naughty boy.” The older cooed, his warm breath flowering against Deusie’s ear. The beginnings of a beautiful garden hidden there.

“I love you.”

It came out long before the young pianist could stop himself, slipping out like a confession for absolution at the steps of a rainy church, slick steps that cut into his knees. The first time he’d ever said it out-loud. Freddie even pulled away at the surprise of it. Deusie’s soft face was turned instantly ruddy with both surprise and shyness, his eyes tipped downcast. _Shite._

“Fred, you don’t have to say it back, I was just…” _Telling the truth._

His favorite hands in all of existence, swept up his face in their endless depths. Freddie’s touch was confident, everything about Freddie oozed the confidence that Deusie never possessed until he was onstage. Yet his eyes were anything but, they swirled with a desperate mess of hope and more than a vague touch of fear.

“You love me?”

Whispered, as if the beautiful boy in front of him was so very unsure. _Oh no, that wouldn’t do_. The towhead’s fingers laced through with his incandescent lover’s, his old charm-bracelet glinting in the low-light.

“Freddie Mercury, you are the _love of my life.”_

More honest words had never been spoken. At least not through Deusie Deacon’s vaguely chapped lips.

He had found true happiness in the space between he and Freddie, in the places they intersected, in the places where their bodies slotted together faultlessly, in the staccato beat of two hearts, in the symphony of every breath. Boys who found solace long before they had anything but each other’s love.

“And you, Deusie Deacon, will always be _mine.”_

_Always._

  
-X-

  
The little charm-bracelet was actually a gift from _Roger_ , of all people.

It was from the stall that he and Freddie ran at Kensington Market, and it seemed to be solely composed of oxidation and rust at first, _(until Roger had spent hours upon hours cleaning it with that one-track mind of his. Those hands were left painful, spent and raw by the labor of love, not that Deusie would ever know about that)._

It still wasn’t perfect, but it was enough to endear the object of his affections. Deusie’s round face lit up brighter than the sun in the sky when Roger clasped the jewelry onto his wrist.

“It’s _beautiful…_ Where did you get this?” Gnawing at his bottom lip, unconsciously echoing his brother’s words from long ago. “Roggie, we can’t _afford—”_

The drummer quieted him by taking that callused hand into his lap, twisting it this way and that as if studying every notch and wrinkle.

“I found it in a little throwaway jewelry box at the stall.” Roger’s fingers caught the first charm, a little toaster. “This one’s Deaky,” Then a little smiling cat and a shooting star. “These are Freddie and Brimi.” Finally, a broken clock face and a tiny race-car. “And you and me…”

“A boring old clock?” Amadeus mock-pouted, legs crossed, strands of cornsilk hair falling in his eyes. “Why can’t I be the fast car, _Roggie-poo?”_

Rog made a big show of retching and rolling his eyes, as if bothered by the younger boy’s imagined slight against his character. “Fine, fine, if you never call me that again, you can be the car.”

Deusie smirked near-instantly, always up for a new challenge, this one culminated in him jumping up from the couch and racing around the apartment like the little shit he was. Screaming: _“Roggie-poo! Roggie-poo!”_ at the top of his lungs, like it was some sort of war-cry.

Roger wasted no time hurtling like a bullet after him.

_Happy Birthday, you little shit._

His heart was flying.

  
_-_ X-

  
The rest of the boys had figured out the true nature of his and Freddie’s relationship long before it was common knowledge.

Long before they dared to say anything to anyone.

It was in the way they moved onstage, the way he would play his piano with eyes only for Freddie, who would often sit next to him on the bench, an adoring face mere inches away from his own during their ballads. The way Freddie would tease him during _Killer Queen_ , even when they played it on _Top Of The Pops_ , where everyone and their mother could see.

It was in every lingering touch, every playful smile, every romp around the cities they toured in. In the way he would let Freddie fuss over him in the dressing room, doing him up like a _Malibu Barbie_ doll. Every laugh, hair in all directions and rosy cheeks awash with color.

Yet it wasn’t until John Reid that they actually said anything.

Mostly because Reid said so first.

He came out to them just days after becoming their manager. Taking a swig of his pint of Guinness and just telling them flat out.

“Look boys, I’m gay. I understand if that bothers you, but I just had to make it clear right now. So you can decide if you want to continue with me.” _Or not._

Their manager, their new friend, looked so bloody _afraid_ of what they were going to say next. Deusie felt an uncharacteristic sort of anger bloom in his belly. Look, he was _pretty fucked up_ , he wasn’t going to _lie_ about that. He was a former child prodigy who couldn’t read or write, and loved the occasional fit on the floor. But his gayness, his love for Freddie, that wasn’t a _problem._ It wasn’t something to be _fixed._

And he didn’t give a bloody shit about what the world thought about their love, or how it supposedly determined his worth.

So Deusie Deacon turned and gently tugged a willing Freddie into the sweetest and most gentle kiss of his life. It wasn’t violent or demanding like so many of the rest he’d often initiated. It was soft and slow and delicate, like folding a paper crane. Tucking in the edges with precise care, flatting the corners and folding open the wings to bring the bird to life.

He knew Freddie’s body, there was no secret held there for him now.

But he would spend the next twelve years of his life, searching out every crevice of his heart.

When he loathly pulled away, his warm thigh was still trapped between both of Freddie’s, and the older man seemed to have no intention of releasing him anytime soon. Instead, he just pulled the towhead closer, tucking him into his chest to nuzzle at his hair, the strands curling up and tickling his nose.

 _“My heart…”_ He hummed. _“Love of my life… You will remember, when this is blown over… everything’s all by the way, when I grow older…”_ The same little thing he was singing last night, tinkering away on their piano-bed that he’d insisted was gift for his darling little pianist, but honestly… when in bed, all Deusie ever wanted was his Freddie, music be damned.

He hated the sound of his own voice, it wasn’t as bad as JoRi’s but it wasn’t pretty either. He didn’t exactly have to sing his own operas. _“I will be there at your side to remind you,”_ His thumb caught on the side of those round pouty lips. _“…How I still love you…”_ But he finished regardless and Freddie’s eyes shined with something beautiful.

Well, more beautiful than normal.

“You see Beryl, darling. We are too. Going on three years now, together.”

At the same time Deusie said. “He’s the _love of my life.”_

Which seemed to get his point across remarkably well.

“I see.” Reid couldn’t hide the smile on his face behind the pint, it was too big, too wide. “But aren’t you worried about division lines in the band? It makes it more likely you’ll split up.”

JoRi rolled his eyes at the same time as Deusie. They were the biggest division line ever to exist.

It was even his quiet John who said so. “Division lines already exist. I’m not going anywhere without my brother.”

Deusie nodded as well, a peachy blush spreading high in his cheeks. “Yup. It’s always been me and JoRi against the world, that’s never gonna change.” No matter how much he loved Freddie or JoRi got closer and closer to popping the question to his lovely girl Ronnie. There would always be _The Deacon Twins._ _No if’s, and’s or but’s about it._

_(Twins were a special breed._

_There was even a phrase for someone who lost a twin: a Twinless Twin._

_The worst sort of loss, a loss that stole one’s own identity. Twins were born twins. So what did you become when your twin was gone? Broken? Lost? Empty?_

_…Forever rendered just half of a whole?)_

  
-X-

  
He started writing a piece for Brian, while their beloved guitarist was lying in hospital, besieged at all sides by hepatitis, gangrene and then an ulcer in his belly that never seemed to heal.

Through it all, Queen never left their brother’s side.

Though Deusie would often sneak down into the hospital’s lobby, where a baby grand piano sat, quiet and undisturbed by the times. He would pour his emotions into his hands and just let the music flow from him again, taking comfort in it. Complete improvisations on a less than perfectly-tuned piano, the offness grated on his perfectly-pitched ears, but he’d certainly dealt with worse. He could still lose himself and pretend everything was alright.

That they hadn’t left the American tour in practical tatters with a jaundiced guitarist sick with everything under the sun. Amadeus was so scared that they were going to lose their best friend, _hell, they all were._

Suffocated by the horrible idea that their Brian was dying right in front of them.

They had been sequestered on a plane ride that felt like it lasted half a million years, with a feverish Brian in their laps, hovering on what felt like the precipice of death. He’d nearly had to have his arm amputated when they got back to London and the very idea of such a monumental loss had sent them all reeling. Queen and guitar were such a big part of Brian’s life. To lose them like that? It would have been near-impossible to cope with.

Deusie would never forget, as long as he lived, the way Brian’s feverish hand had closed around his own. In those wee hours before the debridement of his rotting wound, the determination of whether or not to amputate, it had just been the two of them awake.

“Rog has biology, Fred has his art, Deaky can be the next Leonardo DeVinci…” Brian had gasped into his pillow, hollowed sallow cheeks streaked with tears. “But without my music, I’m _nothing.”_

The sound of that godforsaken word had the pianist instantly sputtering and contradictory words rushing into his mouth, smothering him from the inside. That could not have been farther from the truth, Brian had to know that, he had to. “Bri—“

“No, Deusie…” The curly boy was whimpering, clinging to the younger as if he were some kind of life-preserver in a massive storm. “Please. _Listen.”_

The blonde loathly shut his mouth with a clap.

“…You and I, we’re the _same._ Freddie, John, Roger, they live to play music, but you and I? We play music to _live._ So if I can’t play music anymore, Deusie…” His voice trailed off and he took the moment to draw in another trembling breath. “What would you do if it were you? If you had to chose between life without music or death with it?” Those fever bright eyes seemed to be staring into his very soul, clear even in the presence of every obstacle. Amadeus knew that any lies would be seen through within a second.

So he spoke the truth.

“You and I aren’t the same, Bri. You have so much more than just music going for you, _Dr. May._ But, to answer your question, I would stay without my music.”

Brian started crying harder then, and Deusie climbed onto the bed, protocol be damned to cradle whatever bit of the gangly boy he could soundly reach, when the older sod had always been so much bigger than him.

“Why?” Was the whimper that would invade his thoughts for years to come. 

“For my JoRi. Even if I thought I was totally worthless, I would still be here for _him._ I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose my twin… It would be like losing all of myself.” The very thought was horrifying. “And I know my brother feels the same way. So yeah, I’d do anything for him. Even if that meant living _for him_ instead of my music.”

The young pianist brushed his lips against the burning skin of Brian’s knuckles.

“I’d stay for you too, if you ever asked.”

_Brian would ask._

_Twelve years later, in a hospital bed much like the one they laid in now. He would hold the blonde man’s hand and ask him to stay, even as that special soul began to let go, like the ebb and flow of the tide._

Bri always knew that Deusie wrote compositions for them, but he had never actually laid eyes on 1974’s works.

Not until the seemingly ordinary day in 1995, when he was helping Freddie clean out the attic of Garden Lodge. As he and the remaining members of Queen were planning on turning some of the spare space into a brain-storming/makeshift rehearsal area. Forgetting, with the years, that Deusie had often used that same space for a very similar reason.

How a shade of their boy with his frizzy platinum hair and ink-stained fingers, still sat on the old window-seat, scribbling away in one of his many lined notebooks bursting with spent sheet music.

A few notebooks still laid there, had for years, collecting fractals of dust that glimmered in the soft sunlight that streamed in from the edges of the curtained window.

Brian was instantly drawn to one with a red cover, a familiar creature with a clasp and stains from his own misadventures, visibly scuffed and dropped so many times that parts of it were held together with tape and wishful thinking. He had no idea what it was at first, not until he’d flipped open the first page to see the clumsy spelling of _Deusie Mercury_ on the inside cover, written in what looked like the scrawl of a five-year-old child in primary school.

But the rest of it was _flawless_ , the compositions were originals and yet showed no sign of rewriting or corrections. It was as if the pieces had been fully-formed inside the boy’s head and flawlessly executed in transfer. _Athena bursting from Zeus' skull in full battle regalia._

It should have been impossible.

But Deusie had never loved living in their realm of possibility.

Brian slowly closed the book and pressed it against his chest, gnawing at his bottom lip and releasing a shuddering breath.

_“Bri?”_

If he closed his eyes, he could pretend that there was a boy _(it didn’t feel right to call him a man, not when he had lived and died in the midst of their musical mess, albums and tours and God only knows what else, an endless rush, the years had ticked away like sand in an hourglass. Men got to grow old. Deusie had never even grown wrinkled. He was thirty-five when he went, but in Brian’s mind the younger Deacon twin was still in his twenties, fluffy blonde ponytail and baby-face round, a child still)_ peering at him like a cat from the window-seat, all stretched out in the sunlight as the curtains had never been closed when Deusie was up there, and then extending a hand, calling out to him for a cuddle.

Instead of a Freddie, nearing fifty, wondering why his best-friend was sobbing into a dusty old notebook in a room that hadn’t been cleaned in ages.

Brian opened the curtains.

  
-X-

  
_Eleven._

Their twenty-forth birthday held at Ridge Farm should have been he and JoRi making their own birthday cake at the crack of dawn, with snowball fights of unleavened flour and whipping cream, sweet and then not so innocently sweet make-out sessions with Freddie in their tiny shared bedroom, searching and dancing fingers against soft skin, mouths locking together in an eternal kiss. Instead, they had all been recording for what felt like a million years non-stop and Deusie was about to keel over onto his piano. He wasn’t even sure what day it was at first.

“Deusie!” Roger trilled, his voice raw from all the high notes, a finger poking into the mass of platinum blonde frizz. “Did you _die?”_

Instead of answering, from where he was slumped over like a corpse, the youngest merely reached out his hands to play a funeral dirge on the baby grand. He could practically hear their beloved stickbug guitarist rolling his eyes from across the room. It was obvious they were spending too much time together if Deusie could hear Brian’s expressions.

Freddie had already slumped across John’s chest, the both of them completely gone on the barn’s ratty couch. Sleeping like the dead. Deusie had half a mind to join them, so he dragged himself up and all but crawled over to flop on the floor beside the occupied love-seat, burying his nose in the hardwood. Roger rolled his sky blue eyes and tsked, following and mimicking the action with a tired shit-eating grin of his own. Amadeus pouted, but the blondes wasted no time curling up with each other, Deusie squirreling his sleepy face into Roger’s bare chest.

Asleep within mere moments.

Roger ever so gently positioned them so that he was holding the majority of the younger’s weight, pillowing him from the hard ground. A gentle hand stroking through those long bright tresses. The smaller was letting out small hot breaths that flowered against Roger’s collarbone. Once he was sure Amadeus was asleep, Rog leaned forwards and pressed a featherlight kiss against his temple, sliding a little gold piano charm out of his pocket and snapping it onto the bracelet with a practiced hand.

“Happy birthday, my love.” _My Casper, my fast car._

The boy snuffled and shifted, but remained asleep and never saw the bittersweet smile that graced Roger’s lips.

Or the knowing look that dawned in Brian’s eyes, still watching as he silently slid his Old Lady into her case.

His heart clenching in sympathy.

  
-X-

  
“It’s just not strong enough, Roger.”

The towhead demon had his drumming-wrought hands clenched around the dishes in the sink that should have been done a week ago. He dropped the soapy pan he was holding and then the chipped cup so that they smashed down loud enough to express his ferocity. He whipped around to glare at John and Brian, his heart alight with hungry flames. “What does that even mean, Brian?!”

John rolled his eyes. “You _know_ what he means, Rog. Nobody is trying to _offend._ ”

The blonde bristled anyway, squaring up his shoulders and biting his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. “Well, I’m bloody _offended!_ I put my heart and soul into that song!”

John took up his long-suffering tone, quite seasoned at it from all the years of dealing with Deusie’s creative temper-tantrums. “No one is disputing that.”

Speaking of the devil, Freddie and Deusie flounced in together. The older of the two spinning the blonde into such a tizzy that he stumbled directly into his twin, John who righted him with a roll of his wild green eyes and then made an angry humming noise as his brother stole two sausages off his plate. “Little thief.” He got a little cheek-bulging grin in return.

“What did we miss?” Freddie poured them both a cuppa as Roger paced around like an angry tiger in a cage.

“Discussing Roger’s car song.” His twin said it as though they were having a conversation about _The Black Plague_. _Just discussing whether or not to call the Plague doctors._

Deusie took one sweeping look around the room of angry, stubborn-set jaws and faces before swallowing. “I agree with Roger.” The fellow blonde looked up in muted surprise and every other human being in the room sighed.

“You don’t even know what his _point_ is!” Brian sounded frustrated enough to brain himself on the countertop of the farm’s kitchen.

The young pianist shrugged. “I don’t have to. He’s my best- _friend_.” And in the same breath he turned to press a loving kiss to Freddie’s whiskery cheek. “You need a shave, love.”

Instead of reacting favorably to Deusie’s words however, Roger’s face turned near puce in color and he took his smudged lyrics sheet and crumpled it into a painful little ball, tossing it aside like trash as he charged out of the room, eyes wet and bright.

“What did I say?”

After a few more fights, a cupboard and some flying bacon, _I'm In Love With My Car_ did make it onto the album and no one but Brian looked askance at the charm bracelet around Deusie’s wrist, the car and clock dangling together _forever._

  
-X-

  
It was still 1975 and Deusie was holding the newest love of his life.

Tiny _Robert Deacon_ , cotton-fluff blonde hair and glassy newborn blue eyes. Deusie even started to cry as he rocked the precious child that his new sister Ronnie and dear brother had created. He tried to see his JoRi in the curves of the tiny angel’s face, but instead he only saw their Julie-bean. Their sister’s round lips and almond-shaped eyes, the impossibly strong grip on his finger, he couldn’t help but remember her as the first baby they'd ever held, she who was a grown woman now. He wept quietly in pure unadulterated love, fat warm tears sliding down his cheeks.

John laughed when he saw his son trapped in Amadeus’ juicy clutches.

 _“Soppy fool.”_ He whispered into his brother’s long cornsilk hair as they both leaned over to gaze at the precious child caught between them.

“He’s _beautiful_ , JoRi.”

“Isn’t he?” John sounded so proud, so tired and yet with a glow about him that Amadeus had never seen. Still the better twin, JoRi. Look what you made…

“Just like his Dad.”

Deusie hadn’t realized that he’d said that bit out loud until his brother pulled back with surprisingly teary eyes. After about a minute of staring at each other like a pair of crying old queens, they burst into tears and rolling soft husky laughs, so as to not wake the sleeping angel between them. Sometimes Deusie forgot just how much he loved his sorry twin brother.

But as they bent into a heart over their new shared charge, he had no chance of forgetting that JoRi had been the _first_ love of his life.

  
-X-

  
Amadeus Deacon was not a fan of Paul Prenter, and that was a fact.

He hated the way the sandy-haired man looked at Freddie, sizing him up like a piece of meat on a rotisserie. He hated the way Paul offered a motley of drugs and all sorts of nasty shit to them both, like that creepy guy lurking in the alleyway of those drug PSAs aimed at kids. He acted like they were _‘the same’_ and that dragging Deusie and Freddie out to clubs in the middle of the night was helping them _reconnect to their community._ Now Deusie had no issue with gay bars and going out dancing, it was more of his twin’s scene than his, but he had still spent much of his youth going dancing at various clubs.

That did not make it his _‘community’._

But Freddie relished in the attention, he loved to explore and try new things. So Deusie followed along for his lover’s sake. Hard drugs, partying and long nights weren’t his scene, but he was always there to carry his sweetness back home again. He would never leave an incapacitated Freddie in the care of Paul, who still made the hair on the young composer’s neck stand on end with his leering smiles.

Amadeus would always lovingly tend to his boyfriend once they got back to their flat, as they had their own place now, kicking over a nearby trashcan to rest beside the bed and dampening a soft cloth to rub away all the sweat, grime and glitter still stuck to those lovely angular features. The same beautiful, enticing features that still bewitched him everyday. Pressing a few butterfly kisses to Freddie’s peaked hairline, his lover was burning the candle at both ends and had slumped over in bed, utterly exhausted after working all day and partying all night, asleep in just a few moments.

Deusie would sigh fondly, wriggling under the covers to play big spoon and press a few more kisses into the divot where his boyfriend’s skull latched onto his spine.

Troublemaker or not, Amadeus Deacon was completely _lost_ on Freddie Mercury and he always would be.

_Always._

Even when he left the shower at their flat one morning, towel drying his hair and humming a composition that he needed to put to paper as soon as possible. It was another aria for Roger, the blonde would probably never sing it, but they made nice holiday gifts regardless. A sweet little inside joke, the same as the charms Roger always bought for his bracelet, it had only been a handful of years and yet the delicate little statement piece was getting quite heavy.

Music on his mind, he pulled on a pair of ratty sweats _(sunshine-yellow highlighter bright sweats of course)_ and was in the middle of pulling his still wet hair up into a messy bun, pushing open the door to their music room without a moment’s hesitation.

When _everything stopped._

The love of his life was sitting up and on the piano, his strong tan legs wrapped around Paul’s waist, snogging the dishwater blonde within an inch of his life. Freddie’s tight orange shirt had ended up only God knows where, his feet were bare as well, toes curling up in ecstasy. Paul’s hands were fisted in the long glossy black waves of hair that Deusie so often buried his face in while he slept. A comforting little security blanket that smelled of pure Freddie.

He must have made a sound of pure shock or perhaps sadness, because Freddie’s eyes opened and they met _his_ over Paul’s shoulder.

The world seemed to slow down around him.

Freddie’s caramel eyes growing a startled wide, the desperate shout of his name, the way the familiar fitting aura shaded his vision, adding details and then texturizing everything, Paul jumping back from Deusie's love in shock, the feeling of losing control of his body once more, as out of control as his life had become, the way he stiffened up so violently that it forced a cry from his throat as his light glassy eyes rolled back in his head and he got to experience one of the worst _grand mal seizures_ of his life.

_(In later years he would wonder if the stress had caused it, or if it had just been bad timing, as he’d been up for several long nights in a row and hadn’t been sleeping the best)._

_Always._

_Ten years and I’ll give them all to you._

_...But did you ever want them at all?_

  
-X-

  
There would always be a piano in the lobby of _The Royal London Hospital_.

It would sit untouched for years once _1986_ came and went. Reduced to little more than a decoration or a gentle touch of ambience. Would it always remember the touch of a boy with platinum blonde hair and gentle _Christopher Robin_ features? Who would come back whenever he could and play for the patients in the lobby, his own compositions and some requests even, for whoever needed the music the most. It had started while Brian was hospitalized and had never really ended, not until he was up in the ICU himself, taking his last labored breaths.

_"We came into the world like brother and brother, and now let's go hand in hand, not one before another."_

_The Comedy of Errors._ A piece in one of those Shakespearean work collections that John loved so much, the older twin would borrow them from the local Leicester library when they were boys. He and Deusie would stay awake late at night, long into the wee hours, JoRi reading the worn-out pages out loud by the meager glow of a flashlight manned by the blonde boy. Acting as though they thought neither Julie nor their mother could still hear them. A copy rested on top of the piano now.

The piano that still waited for the boy.

The boy who would never come back again.

Who would never again lace his fingers over the Kaposi’s Sarcoma dotted hands of a stranger. Teaching a suffering fellow boy a few scales. A fellow boy that the world was now terrified of. No one knew how the new disease was spread. Human touch? Space dust? Apes? Partial viruses? Complex viruses? Was it similar to the plague? The flu? Cancer? No one knew. So the world was afraid.

But not it would seem, the boy at the piano.

“I can teach you, but I’ll have to guide your fingers a bit at first. Come sit?”

A bright, open smile. No judgement, no fear.

“…Aren’t you afraid of me?”

No.

He wasn’t.

AIDS wasn’t what killed the piano’s missing boy and it wasn’t his kindness either.

“No, but you should be scared of _me_. I’m quite the terrible teacher.” A light laugh, clear like a tiny bell, tinkling like the line of charms on his bracelet.

The piano’s boy handed a yellow carnation to a sick boy who was twenty-eight years old and ninety-eight years old at once. Dying of a disease. Dead in the eyes of his loved ones and their society.

“What’s this for?”

A thin voice, small and frail, trembling with unshed tears.

“Everyone needs a little love.” Hugs did not make the boy sick, and he held his new friends without fear... _everyone needed to feel loved._

The piano’s boy wasn’t there anymore.

There was a beautiful bouquet of carnations resting on top now, but no pale searching hands to pluck them and give them away as gifts with a gentle smile.

The piano missed the boy.

  
-X-

  
_“A man of ordinary talent will always be ordinary, whether he travels or not; but a man of superior talent will go to pieces if he remains forever in the same place.”_

― Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart


End file.
